Barefoot Dogs (11 page)

Antonio’s still holding my shoulder, his eyes filled with emotion, deep blue and misty, and I can see he genuinely thinks we are alike. I want to ask him if there’s a cheerful ending to the story, ask him to tell me about that morning when he woke up with the smell of rotten eggs piercing his nose and yet Paris felt finally like home. I want him to say that every immigrant story about people who have been forced to abandon the place they thought they’d always belong ends that way, on a merry note, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

“We should get upstairs now,” Catalina blurts out. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure Belisario will wake up hungry any minute.” She looks as moved as Antonio, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

“Of c-course,” Antonio stammers. He sounds apologetic. If he’s blushing I can’t tell, for his skin looks so red already.

We say our goodbyes and enter the lobby. When we reach the elevator, Zurbarán refuses to step in, pulling toward the stairs. He was supposed to be exhausted by now, but he wants to go out again, and the prospect of being in the apartment with Catalina while the baby sleeps fills me with anxiety. I step out of the elevator.

“Looks like he wants to walk a little more.”

“His paws are a mess, Martín,” she says. It’s never good when she says my name. “He needs some rest.”

“Agreed, but he seems to be thinking otherwise. I might just take him for a last quick stroll, and be back in no time.”

Moaning sounds come from the stroller. Belisario stretches out his arms, then his legs. He’s waking up.

“Whatever,” she spits. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, ’cause you’re taking too many chances here, you understand? Too fucking many.”

She pushes a button, and the doors slowly close. I try to think about the last time there wasn’t tension between us, and it’s hard to remember. Perhaps it was back when it was just the two of us, nothing, no one, else.

As Zurbarán and I walk west on the empty street, I imagine her alone in the empty apartment, feeding the baby, considering what to fix for lunch. I imagine her slitting open a bag of prewashed greens and tossing them with vinaigrette, while thinking about me, imagining me walking around the block with my sick dog and a smile on my face, thinking, What an asshole. What a horrible husband and pathetic father. How immature, how useless and cowardly
.
I imagine her asking herself why she’s still with me and what’s keeping her from leaving, from meeting someone else, a real man. Someone like my father.

We reach the corner of Gaztambide, and a white, stuccoed building rises in front of us. It has balconies on every floor, lush and full of green clay pots teeming with geranium blossoms so red they look swollen with blood. On the ground floor there’s an adult day care center and, next to the entrance, a plaque on the wall that says Casa de las Flores. It explains that the building was built in the thirties, and almost destroyed in
the Civil War. At some point during the war, it was home to Chilean poet Pablo Neruda.

I try to remember any of Neruda’s poems, and I realize that the only thing I know about him is his name.

There’s a bench outside, and I aim for it, feeling exhausted. It’s so fucking hot. The buildings around me sizzle and pound.

Zurbarán coils into himself in the shade cast by the bench, and slides into a nap. He looks so old now, so eroded. I wish I could ease his pain and keep him alive. Dr. Ybarra suggested putting him to sleep. I couldn’t do it. I want him to live for as long as possible. I don’t want to be alone.

A white Lincoln Town Car flashes by and disappears around the corner, and I get goose bumps. It’s the first time I’ve seen that type of car here. The last car my father had. It was the car he was driving the day he disappeared.

I check on Zurbarán. “You still there?” I whisper in his ears. “I wish I could love you more, or better,” I say. His eyes remain closed.

I cover my mouth and sob like the orphan that I have become. I sob so hard I feel like my lungs are going to explode.

A few minutes later I hear the noise of tires screeching against pavement. I open my eyes, letting the daylight hurt me, and the Lincoln’s parking in front of me, taking a spot designated for ambulances. The driver’s door swings open, and Dad emerges from the car, giving me a wide, bright smile.

“So glad I came at this hour,” he says mischievously as he approaches me, walking funny. “Jesus! It’s so hard to find a parking spot in this city!”

He’s wearing jeans and a sky-blue polo shirt; his salt-and-pepper hair is combed to perfection, shining brilliantly against the unrepentant sun. Zurbarán rises and starts to sniff around Dad’s legs and the unusual sneakers he has on.

Dad looks athletic and relaxed, as if he’d finally caught up on the hours of sleep he’d been deprived of. He pets the dog, plays with his ears. Zurbarán reacts merrily and tries to lick his hands, but my father steps back.

He stands before me with his arms wide open, like a hawk gliding across the sky. I remain glued to the bench. I can’t move.

“Aren’t you going to give your father a hug?” Dimples in his cheeks. His presence is radiant and overpowering.

I look around the street; there’s no one around.

“He’s got my eyes,” I say, pulling myself together, “and my nose and eyebrows and everything else, but the dimples are yours. I hadn’t noticed before.”

“So, no hug, huh?” Dad replies. He lowers his arms and scratches his neck a couple times, the gesture he does when something upsets him. He limps to the bench and takes a seat next to me. An electric shock runs down my spine. He breathes deeply and looks around, taking in the neighborhood. He stretches his arms and rests them on the back of the bench. I discreetly inch away, afraid that if he touches me I’ll feel nothing.

“I understand if you don’t want to hug me,” he says. His eyes remain the same, but seem transparent now. They don’t look tired or mad or sad. They’re just on me, encompassing me. “We could try again later, right?”

His voice is exactly the same as before but calmer, as if he didn’t have an opinion to impose this time around. He scans the street, then turns to me and smiles again. He smiles as if he weren’t aware of what’s happened to him, to us.

“You’re so handsome, Son,” he says. “Did I ever tell you that—”

“Your feet,” I cut him off.

“Oh, yes,” he says, taking a good look at the Puma sneak
ers he has on. They are apple-green with fluorescent yellow stripes and unbearably edgy. “What about them?”

“You have feet. Again, I mean.”

“Yeah, well,” he says. He bends forward and gives a quick brush to the sneakers with the tip of his fingers, looking uncomfortable. “These are, um, not really my feet, you know. I mean, look at those sneakers, look at the colors, the—”

“Whose feet are they?”

He clears his throat, and my stomach cramps for everything looks and feels so real, his voice, his gestures, his presence that always soothed me, regardless. “To be honest with you, I’m not sure. I got them at a flea market, and I preferred not to know all the details of the previous owner, if you know what I mean.”

“They look too small for you.”

“You’re right!” He sounds relieved I’m not pressing further. “It feels funny, though, walking on them. Now I know what it was like for those poor Chinese girls, you know?”

“I miss you,” I hear myself say out loud.

“I know,” he says, and smiles again and goes silent, keeping his eyes on mine. “I miss you too. But you’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine, Son. I’m so proud of you.”

“You could have told me that before,” I say, and immediately regret having said it.

“You are a father now,” he whispers. “You’ll see for yourself that we, fathers, are full of shit.”

“He’s got my face. He’s just like me. I’m terrified, Dad.”

“I was terrified when you were born too. You’ll be okay.”

We talk for a while. He wants to know what it’s like to live in Madrid. He wants to know if I’m planning to look for a job or open a business. He says a man should be busy, says that’s the way a man earns his family’s love and respect, and drops a couple of names of people in Spain who could help me.
He doesn’t bring up the way he went missing, what happened to him, who did what to him, and I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. It’s no use anymore.

Someone on one of the balconies above opens a window, and the sounds of a game show spoil the serenity. A siren howls in the distance. Madrid’s coming back to life.

“Looks like someone might need the parking spot,” Dad says. “I’d better get going; I don’t want to run into trouble. Cops are hard to bribe around here, you know.”

“I wish you’d stay longer.”

“I do too,” he says as he rises and tucks the polo shirt into his jeans. “But I have something else to tell you before I leave.”

“What is it?”

“I know what’s wrong with your dog.”

I can’t believe my ears.

“What’s wrong with my dog, Dad?” I say, and can’t help a smile.

“His feet.”

“What’s with them?”

“He’s been barefoot all this time.”

“He’s a dog, Dad.”

“I can’t believe I never told you this.”

“What about?”

“Dogs are not meant to be barefoot. Barefoot dogs always die young.”

I don’t know what to say. Dad squats down and pets Zurbarán, but he doesn’t move. He remains asleep, enjoying himself in dreams.

“As long as you get him shoes, he’ll be fine,” he says, and rises again.

“The vet said he’s got stomach cancer that has metastasized all over the place.”

“Bullshit. He’ll be fine.”

I want to say I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to disappoint him.

“Okay. I’ll get him shoes,” is all I say. “Thanks for the advice, Dad.”

“Anytime, Son,” he says, and reassures me with a look. “Okay. Gotta go now.”

Dad opens his arms, and I rise, trembling. He’s the one who approaches me. His body feels weightless, as if made of cork, the fabric of his polo eerie and crisp, and once we embrace I don’t want to let him go, and I don’t. We remain there, in the searing sun, thousands of miles away from home, until the aroma of roasted peanuts and mold that emanates from his skin evaporates, until he is gone.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people have supported, encouraged, and advised me for the last eight years the list is ridiculously long. If I expressed in detail the reasons for my gratitude to all of them this section would be longer than the book itself, so I’ll be brief.

Maria Hummel welcomed me into this language and encouraged me to make it my own. She was the first one to believe I could pull this off.

Oscar Cásares and Elizabeth McCracken embraced my work and advocated tirelessly for me—and still do. Elizabeth guided me wisely as I wrote the first draft, and keeps accepting my hugs in exchange. Oscar gifted me with his friendship and mentorship, and never misses lunch at Madam Mam’s.

Edward Carey got excited by these stories and made me believe in them.

Dawn Garcia made the phone call that changed my life. She and Jim Bettinger at the Knight Fellowships made my dream come true. Ana Cristina Enríquez and Gabo Rodríguez-Nava helped me get there—here. This is basically their fault.

Sammie Sachs, Cecilia Yang, Jaslyn Law, Geri Smith, Erika Harrell, Katie Turner, Becca Tisdale, Nicole Chorney, Annika Ozinskas, Mia Arreola, Katherine Bell, Michelle Odemwingie, Chelsea Young, and Lisa Ruskin read my first
pieces in English, and encouraged me to keep going. Without their early cheering I’d have given up.

Janine Zacharia and Dionne Bunsha patiently revised my early broken sentences, and never stopped rooting for me, have never stopped making me laugh.

Michael Collier at Bread Loaf gave me my first writing opportunity. Wayne Lesser nominated me for a fellowship at UT. John Pipkin awarded my thesis an award. Rebeca Romero supported me as my boss for four years, and shared countless screenshots for laughs.

Adam Johnson, Tom Kealey, Ted Conover, Jane Brox, Pete LaSalle, Thomas Cable, Jim Magnuson, Don Graham, Lisa Moore, Stephen Harrigan, Jake Silverstein, and Brigit Pegeen Kelly taught me how to do this. Noreen Cargill, Amy Stewart, Patricia Schaub, Marla Akin, Gwen Barton, and Melissa Kahn have made everything easier.

Cecily Sailer at Badgerdog gave me my first chance as a teacher. Carmen Johnson
and Paul Lisicky said yes when everybody else was saying no. Honor Jones, Clay Smith, and Michael Bourne generously opened to me the doors to their publications.

Michael Adams made me cry over the phone. He and Dorothea took care of my family and me, and have gifted us with their friendship. The Graduate School at UT and the Texas Institute of Letters awarded me the Dobie Paisano Fellowship that allowed me to finish this book and convinced me that risks are worth taking.

Richard Abate took a leap of faith on the unpublished guy, and made the impossible happen.

Stefan Merrill Block proved that nothing moves without the generosity of noble strangers. This book would remain a manuscript without his excitement about it.

Nan Graham believed in the writer no one had heard
about and advocated for him since day one. Thanks to her, Scribner became my home—what else can I say? Can you believe it? I still can’t.

Liese Mayer, my incredibly genius and generous editor, brought the Arteagas to life. Her tireless enthusiasm and intelligence turned a flawed draft into what you just read. This book would be way smaller without her caring wisdom.

Alex Merto, Mia Crowley-Hald, Erich Hobbing, and Kyle Kabel helped to produce a beautiful-looking book, and Kyle Radler helped to shout out from the rooftops.

Heera Kang, Lindsey Campion, Corinne Greiner, Kendra Fortmeyer, Ryan Bender-Murphy, Fiona McFarlane, Mary Miller, Greg Marshall, Monica Macansantos, Jeff Bruemmer, Ben Healy, Kate Finlinson, Taylor Flory Ogletree, Corey Miller, Carolina Ebeid, Virginia Reeves, Ben Roberts, and all of my other fellow writers at UT, Buddy Macatee, Liz Cullingford, Nina McConigley, Luis Alberto Urrea, Kevin Mcllvoy, Matt Mendez, Myronn Hardy, Mike Scalise, Annita Sawyer, Kim Dana Kupperman, Eduardo Corral, Tomás Morín, Ben Fountain, Cristina Henríquez, Alfredo Corchado, Sarah Bird, Tom Zigal, Mary Helen Specht, Tyler Stoddard Smith, Francisco Goldman, Steph Opitz, Mark Doty, Elizabeth Gollan, Cecilia Ballí, Juan Pablo Villalobos, Daniel Alarcón, Carolina Guerrero, Laura Martínez, Sharan Saikumar, Elena Vega, Loren Corona, Javier Garza, Pam Naples, Edward Schumacher-Matos, Mark Stacey, Jorge Luis Sierra, Gabo Sama, Mara Behrens, Chucho del Toro, Lolbé Corona, Ana Paula Ayanegui, Rocío Mino, Orieta Barbetta, José Antonio Herrera, Aidee Salinas, Lorena Flores, Samuel Belilty, Mike Gaytán, Jesus Chavez, Luis Patiño and everybody else at KAKW, Joel Salcido, Susana Guzmán, Aarón Sánchez, John Miguel and the Calverts, Marcia Brayboy, Nancy Rushefsky,
Bonnie Lister, Maarit and Sami Laurinen, Joao Andrade, Eric Thuau, Concha Fuente, Julià Monsó, Cristina Marzá, Dinorah, Fabiola, Mónica and Ofelia Rojas, Cata Laborde, Mariana Ortiz, Javier Pérez-Ilzarbe, Christel Peyrelongue, Federico Ortiz, Pedro Ortiz, Griselda Ruiz, Enrique Ruiz, tía Flor, tío Jorge, and Jorgito have all said words that kept me going.

Carlitos Gutiérrez has always been there, from Santa Fe through St. Mark’s Place.

Neto Corona remains the brother I always wanted to have, decades strong.

My mom has been my mom, all along.

Emiliano and Guillermo have written the best part of my story, hands down. Life was so lame before you guys arrived.

And in the beginning, and in the end of everything I am, is, was, and will always be, Valentina. My first and last reader, my mantra, my home. The most beautiful Madrileña you’ll ever find, the chatty girl from Montevideo who saved my life.